November 1st

The Boogeyman

After that day you don't look the rabbit in the face. You can't bring yourself to look at Witch, either, at risk of looking at her wrong and being strangled again. You didn't process that quite as soon as it happened, but hours, days after: you almost died. It sort of rings hollow when you've been on the brink of death for weeks now.

The rabbit hates you. You know that. It loves you, too. You know that. It's fed up enough with you to put its hands on your neck. It cares enough for you to fix you a hot meal.

Or maybe that was just to shut you up.

You've been given plenty to think about over your next ten-day sentence. It hasn't barred you from meals this time, to your surprise. You can't decide if that relieves you—after all, you can't look at the sheep or the rabbit anymore without chocolate bile inching up your throat. You keep your eyes on the floor, on the table, on your hands, wherever it's safest. You keep your mind off the kitchen.

When you're ushered back to the cellar, the rotten, stuffy air tells you you may lift your gaze. Your eyes have begun to ache from being stuck to the floor.

The phonograph has been spinning a theme lately. "The Monster Mash." "Jack, You're Dead." "Heebie Jeebies." "The Boogeyman." Is it next Halloween already? You've lost track of the days since you've been trapped here, but to think a year has passed...that doesn't seem right.

You think of the candy next, "Pumpkin" and "Witch," and decide that this must happen every so often, no matter the month. The rabbit seems to breathe Halloween year-round.

—

For all the sleep you get, it's abnormally light; the touch of a leathery hand on your arm is enough to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. It's pitch black as always, but the hand is there, callous, dry and warm.

The hand grabbing you is warm.

You startle and kick by instinct, shuffling up against the cellar wall, but it holds tight and pulls you forward by the wrist. You're unshackled completely. You swallow a shallow breath and force yourself to come to your senses—drowsiness is still weighing down your head—jerking your arm back as hard as you can. The hand pulls again, and the plastic ring of the pinprick presses against your fingertip. You jerk back even harder than before.

Another leathery hand clamps over your mouth and you let out a muffled yelp. They're gloved. They have to be.

"Don't," it whispers.

You consider for a fleeting moment that you're dreaming. It's the rabbit's voice, no doubt—only it's clearer, breathier, mere inches from your face.

You shouldn't find this surprising. The empty eyes. The voice. The phonograph, the tracks, the sheer control it has over this house. You'd known. But now it's right in front of you, one hand harsh on your mouth.

You jerk your head away from the hand, butting up like an irate rodent, and spit out the taste of old leather.

"You," you breathe. The rabbit—the human?—is silent and still. You stand up on shaky legs and heave a breath.

"You," you say through gritted teeth. Any other words have evaporated on your tongue. The glove is still tight on your wrist; before it can move away from you, you grapple in the pitch black for the arm attached to this hand. You find something skinny, hairy, and warm, and latch on for dear life.

"You."

"Be still, bunny," he says, and now you can hear the trace of panic weaving through his voice like a dancing ribbon. You feel up the arm and grip his shoulder violently—a stiff polyester scratches your fingertips.